


NOT THE END OF THE WORLD Or, Why Crowley Hates the Fourteenth Century

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Endnotes abuse, Fear, Fourteenth century, Good thing we know how this turns out, Humanity, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, My First Fanfic, My graduate research let me show it to you, No Sex, Oxford, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Repression, Seriously they don't even touch each other, Theology, black death, italics abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: Crowley simply LOVED the fourteenth century.Until Aziraphale asked him for a favour.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	NOT THE END OF THE WORLD Or, Why Crowley Hates the Fourteenth Century

_Oxford, England. June 1347_

“You summoned me, angel?”

Crowley’s tone was mildly derisive, but he could not quite squash his inward pleasure. For all the centuries of their Arrangement, Aziraphale hardly ever initiated contact. Usually it was up to Crowley to find some way to “coincidentally” have overlapping assignments, in order to spend a precious few hours sharing a drink, or a meal, or even just chatting.

“I did not ‘summon’ you. No runes or candles were involved. I … merely suggested that we might go on away from the … humans and …” the pause was even longer here “… talk.” Aziraphale’s long blue cote and slouched cap, appropriate to a middling-successful bookstaller, were rumpled and slightly stained (Crowley’s fingers itched to clean and straighten them to their usual, well, immaculate state); the principality looked flustered and edgy, which was normal, and weary and somehow dimmed, which was not.

Crowley nonchalantly smoothed the sleeve of his excellent black doublet, admiring the interlaced scarlet snakes around the cuffs, glad that he had been wearing something stylish when Aziraphale walked – sidled, almost – into the hot, noisy, fetid tavern where Crowley was enjoying an impromptu scuffle between students of a rival masters. It was a pity that they hadn’t knives tucked away in their belts, but a good sharp pen was _almost_ stabbier than a sword. Not that he wouldn’t have left the Sack of Rome just to go on a walk with his angel.1

“Whatever you’re about to accuse me of, I didn’t do it.” Which was probably true. What would be later called “the fourteenth century” was almost half over, and so far it was shaping up to be one of Crowley’s favourites. The innovations and cross-cultural contacts of the previous century had become nicely routine; fabrics and foods he hadn’t seen since his Roman days—oranges! peppers! _oysters_!2 not to mention all the new ideas--were easy to find, even in this damp English university town. Plenty of the same old vices, as well; and with practically no effort on his part. The constant intellectual ferment, the rapid advances in technology and trade, the nascent coalescence of nation-states—all had honed humanity’s innate pride and greed and envy, and the demon had hardly had to lift a finger. Well, he had nursed the grudge that young Ned3 held against the House of Valois, and given him a few tips on setting up a proper bureaucracy; but mostly he had sent fulsome and fraudulent memos Down Below, and encouraged that Montpellier alchemist4 in his pharmaceutical experiments.

He whistled a phrase of two from _O Fortuna_.5 “What’re you doing in Oxford, anyhow? Shouldn’t think it be your sort of place. The court won’t even let the king hold his Assizes here anymore; too many rowdy students. Debauched criminals.” Rowdy criminals and debauched students. “Why aren’t you in Turkey, helping out those… Hostiles? Hoteliers? Y’know, _your_ lot.”6

“You know that I don’t like to get involved in the more, er, _martial_ assignments.”

Crowley raised a mocking eyebrow over the rims of his newly-acquired tinted Venetian lenses. (That was another thing he liked about this century; those efficient Italians had finally regularized the manufacture of eyeglasses, and he no longer had to explain what he wanted every blessed time.) “Weren’t you created to be a warrior? Host of Heaven? Flaming sword an’ all?”

“That was a long time ago. Wars are so … _complicated_ , these days.” Aziraphale coloured faintly, and added, “Besides, I was in Munich. Visiting a ... a friend, I suppose.”

Crowley grimaced. He didn’t like to think of the angel as having “friends.” Well, other than Crowley.

“His name is—was--William. Lovely fellow. So very clever.” By this point their meandering path had taken them well past the bustling market stalls of St. John’s Street, and beyond the House of Scholars at Merton. The Walks here were uncultivated, rather pretty if one liked to let their plants grow without proper motivation. “He used to lecture on philosophy here, oh, about twenty years ago. Practically yesterday. Heady times, heady times.” They came to a halt near to the river Cherwell. The angel allowed his gaze to drift to squabbling ducks on the water, so the demon didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t watching. As a result, Crowley twitched rather guiltily when Aziraphale looked abruptly at his face. “You’d’ve enjoyed it … him ... I should think.”

“Unlikely, angel. I’ve met your philosophers. Tedious lot, every last one of them. Except for that Albert, tricky fellow, tried to trap me in a rock, did you know that?7 But the rest of them, _ugh_. Not like the old days, forever up for a drink, or a lark; Lucretius, now, he knew a thing or two about, about, a thing or two. 8 But these modern thinkers, always going on about _essentia_ this and _sed contra_ that and the, the , thisness of the which… “

“ _Haeccitas_ 9 , yes. William did not care overmuch for Scholastic methods either. He was so very … clever. So quick, so impatient. Always asking questions. Always getting into trouble. He reminded me of …” Aziraphale’s eyes flew back to Crowley, then just as quickly looked away. “Of … you know that I am partial to the clever ones.”

Crowley snorted. “Fond of troublemakers? You shouldn’t let that one get about, angel.” To disguise the sudden painful warmth somewhere in the middle of his chest, he picked up a handful of small rocks and started flipping them across the surface of the river, startling the ducks.

“Oh, I know. And so many of their philosophers have been ever so elegant over the years. So refined. So, so _tidy_. The human mind can create such admirable, tasteful edifices.” He twitched his fingers, and Crowley’s rocks suddenly turned into wholesome legumes, at which the ducks snapped greedily. “But there are also the … the _messy_ ones. The inquisitive ones. So startling and wondrous, you know.”

Crowley didn’t know. He mostly ignored the squabblings of the infinite varieties of more-or-less alignment with the Other Side.10 Not that he let them know Below; it was positively sinful how much credit one could claim for bloodshed over a stray _iota_ , or an empire shattered over a _filioque_. Honestly, he figured they could create much more havoc on their own.

“There was that difficult boy, Peter, a couple hundred years ago. Abelard, not the stodgy Lombard fellow,” Aziraphale went on, almost dreamily. “Arrogant, sarcastic, but _so_ brilliant. He quite set Paris on its ear, you know, with that book of his, what was it? _Yes But No_. And so very very much in love, he and that dear girl. I do think she might have been more clever than he.”

“Love. Yeah.” Crowley swallowed uncomfortably. “Yeah, so that did for him, didn’t it? I mean, cut his bits off for it, didn’t they?”

“And Origen, even earlier. His mind … it just _sparkled_. He wasn’t afraid to think about anything. _Ask_ anything. Even … even … well, he argued against eternal damnation, did you know that?” Aziraphale very pointedly did not look at the demon. “Said that even the Adversary himself could be, MUST be capable of redemption. Er. Logically. Else the Almighty … wouldn’t be. All mighty. Er.” He sighed. “Of course, he was condemned as a heretic in the end.”

“Yeah.” Crowley growled. “Cut off his bits, too, didn’t they?”

“Well, not _exactly_.11 But … Anyway, William. He was like that. _Shining_. He would argue… He would argue … he didn’t think things should be so, so, _complicated_. He would always ask, ‘Is that’ – any _that_ you please, there was nothing – ‘is that really _necessary_?’ Here, I mean, I used to listen to him right here in Oxford, William and his students. They would ask things like, ‘Must the Incarnation have happened the way it did? Could the Almighty have become incarnate as, say, a donkey?’” The angel looked pleasantly scandalized.

“Why a donkey? Don’t see the point that. Might as well be, I dunno, a duck.” Both of them contemplated the birds on the river, who remained determinedly non-Divine.

Aziraphale shook his head briefly. “The point was the _asking_. All sorts of troublesome questions. Even… even … ‘Could the Almighty command one to sin?’“ He looked sideways at Crowley.

“Ah,” Crowley smirked in satisfaction. “So they cut off _his_ bits, then. Only to be expected.”

“No! No. And may I point out that this, this fixation of yours, is _most_ unseemly!”

“I’ve been on this world for over five thousand years, angel. You can’t tell me they just let him get _away_ with it.”

“They… well, they summoned him to explain himself.”

“ _Ngk_.” Crowley had been there, once or twice. “The bits might’ve been better.”

“Yes, well… And he has _been_ explaining himself, over and over. For … decades. And he kept asking questions. About so many things. About … governance. And authority. And … and using one’s brain.” Aziraphale was silent. “Anyway, he died. Still asking questions. So very young.”

Now Crowley felt a bit, an extremely-tiny-but-not-just-a-rounding-error bit, guilty for his anger. All right, and his jealousy. None of _his_ questions ever seemed to provoke that soft sorrow. “Angel, they _all_ die. Eventually.”

“Yes. I know.” Another muted sigh. “Anyhow, William asked me to come here and check on his students. Sort of an, er, last request. I couldn’t very well ignore it.”

Crowley made a motion with his hand, _get on with it_.

“Yes. And oh, my dear!” Aziraphale turned to him, his eyes alit, hands clasped together at his chest. “It is… they are … it’s so _lovely_!”

“They’re all right, then?”

“Oh, more than all right! You know how much I love the University of Paris, they are so learned, so erudite, quite the center of intellectual world, and, and oh! The books! Dear boy, and the, the …”

“The _food_ ,” Crowley added, amused.

“Yes, the food, and the music, and the architecture, and … Yes, Paris. But there is no denying, that the theology faculty there can be, er, rigid. Stiff-necked, one might say.”

“One might.”12

“But these young boys – well, perhaps not so young now, but they all seem so young, don’t they? And the sheer _daring_ of them! The adorable effrontery! They question everything, EVERYTHING. The doctrines of the Church. The meaning of the Scriptures. The powers of the government. They ask ‘Is this _necessary_?’ They ask ‘ _Why_?’ And they teach their students to question. It’s astonishing. It’s _beautiful_.”

Crowley became aware that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it. “Er.” He looked down, around, even risked a glance Up, but found no assistance. “Er,” he tried again. “That doesn’t seem like … Um. Your sort of thing. I mean,” he hastily added, “I can quite see the appeal, yes, indeed, but I didn’t think that, that, that YOU would, um, like that. Sort of thing. Your side, I mean. Um.”

“Oh, but Crowley. You don’t understand.” Aziraphale practically … yes, he _wriggled_ with excitement. Lor- , Sata-, Whoever, he was so _beautiful_. “You don’t understand at all. How they can do it. _Why_ they can do it. It’s faith, my dear. It’s absolute _trust_.”

The angel looked for a moment as if he were going to seize the front of Crowley’s doublet in a spasm of passionate sincerity. That would be bad. Very bad. The demon took a hasty step back. “Ah. That’s bad. I mean, _good_. I mean… what do you mean, trust?”

“Well, that’s what they’ve been teaching here. Or they did. William. Even Duns Scotus. Back to old Erigena, I suppose. This absolute utter reliance on the infinite potency of the Almighty.” He stopped for a moment, distracted by the redundancy, but recovered his enthusiasm and burbled on. “So you see, they feel _safe_. No hedging about with rules, with doctrines, with Thou Shalt Not Asks. Because they trust that whatever they ask, the answer will be … it will all be … it shall all be _well_.”

“Well.” And didn’t _that_ word taste like ashes in his mouth.

“And you know, it’s not just the philosophers, like dear William. That faith, that trust, that exuberant _joy_ ; it is _everywhere_ here in Oxford. There were those Merton lads, the ones fascinated by numbers. They counted everything. They believed that they _could_ count everything. They took quantities and measures and proportions and believed they could build from there a ladder straight to the gates of Heaven.”

“Because that worked out so well for the Babel crowd. And speaking of babble...”

Aziraphale swept right over his bitter interjection, a rudeness that Crowley hadn’t quite expected his angel to be capable of. It was as if he hadn’t even heard. “And then there was Richard, sweet sweet boy, he’s in Hampole now, dropped out without ever getting his degree, but he learned, my dear, he learned it as well! And now he’s out in the middle of nowhere13 translating the Scriptures into English – _English_ , can you imagine, and cuddling up to that darling anchoress, what was her name, Margaret something, and he is writing absolutely stunning treatises on the”—the angel’s dreamy sigh almost discorporated Crowley—“ _the fiery incandescence of transcendent love_ , and he is so very very not afraid! Not...” and here Aziraphale, whose words had been tumbling out like a someone running down a steep hill, faster and faster, almost out of control, just stopped. Stopped like a brick slab had suddenly erupted smack in front of his face. “Not afraid.” He looked down and clasped his hands in front of him again. Not in eagerness this time. Almost in supplication.

 _Aha_ , thought Crowley. _And that’s_ my _cue_. “Not to worry, angel.” He said it casually. Easily. _No problem, no need to mention it._ “I’m not here to destroy anybody’s entertaining little delusions.”

“What? You’re not … ah, quite. But…”

“I’m not. No worries. Your lads will learn the rewards of _trust_ ” his lips twisted bitterly “soon enough on their own, I expect. No need for me to get involved. Besides,” he waved an airy hand, “more fun this way, right?”

“Oh. Oh. Yes. Thank you. But.” Aziraphale looked away. Took a breath. Looked back. “That... that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Not … “ By all the demons in Hell – and Crowley was quite prepared to go and count them all, Right This Minute – if that wasn’t it, why did Aziraphale have to put him through such an _excruciating_ rhapsody.

“No. Crowley… Crowley, there’s something coming. Something bad.”

“Of course there is. There always is. Something bad, something good, that’s how it works. That’s how we –”

“No.” Aziraphale interrupted him, again. “Something really, _really_ , bad.” He licked his lips. “I received word. When I got here. From, um, you know. To be ready. For. One of … _Them_.”

“One of the—one of your lot, you mean? Gabriel? I mean, he’s a complete prat, but I wouldn’t call him ‘bad’, he isn’t worth the candle, now maybe Azrael, he could pull of Bad, with _style_ , that I’ll give him.”

“No. Not from Heaven. One of … you know, one of the Four. The one … the one with the crown.”

Oh. _That_ Them. “Ah. I’m sorry, angel, but you know it happens. Pretty much all the time. Somewhere. Everywhere. Itsss … It’s a thing. That happens.”

“Not ... not like this.” Another breath. “There is a boat. A dozen boats. From … it doesn’t matter.14 They will be arriving in Sicily in maybe … two months. Two months. And on those boats… there are rats.”

“There are always rats.”

“Yes. And these rats … like to nest. In the thatch… the roofs… of houses. The houses where humans live. And.” Aziraphale’s face was absolutely grey now. “These rats. They have… fleas. When the rats… when they die… and they _will_ die… the fleas. They will bite. The humans.”

“I see.”

“No. No, you don’t see. In …by … within four years from today, two hundred million people will have died.”

Crowley stared at him. “Fuck.”

Aziraphale nodded, an awkward jerk of his chin.

“Two. Hundred. Million.”

“Maybe. Something like that. It’s… difficult to say. Exactly. But … somewhere between one- and two-thirds of every human being in the entirety of the European and Asian continents.”

“ _Fuuuuuuuuuuck_.” Crowley shook his head. “Not. Not one of ours. I would have heard. Someone would have … _bragged_ … about it.”

“No. Not one of yours.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded very small. “One of ours, I’m afraid.”

To Heaven with his new doublet. He could always miracle up another. Crowley plonked himself down on the muddy riverbank. “This is from … Up There?”

Aziraphale sank beside him, hugging his knees. “Some of our best generals… our most brilliant strategists… They have been working on this for quite some time, I’ve been told.”15

“But _why_?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “I suppose that I shouldn’t … I mean, I don’t really know all the details. Top-secret strategy, and all that. But they’ve explained the general idea. It’s … it’s quite shrewd, actually.”

“Shrewd.” Crowley twisted his mouth. “Are you sure you don’t mean _wily_?”

“Ingenious, then. You see, there will be … a labour shortage. A _severe_ labour shortage. And this plague will return, and return, and _return_ , and … this lack of labour-“

“ _People_ ” hissed Crowley.16

“Yes, well, it will last for decades. And wages will rise. And the bonds of serfdom will … loosen. Cities will … greater urbanization. Weakening the traditional aristocracy. There will be more … reciprocity, more justice, a … better society. In the long run.”

“The long run.” Crowley was getting tired of being an echo.

“And the Church. It has become more corrupt, I’m sure you’ve noticed. Estranged from the people, as it were.” Aziraphale sounded like he was on more comfortable ground here. “Such widespread … devastation … the institution must surely return to its proper role, providing comfort, and inspiration, and, and so forth.”

“Oh, without doubt.”

“And if not, there will be an enormous resurgence of … of a more _personal_ spirituality. More _intimate_. More _affective_.”

 _You mean more terrified and guilt-ridden_ , Crowley thought. There was no need to say it.

“And there was something about improving the quality of the beer, which I didn’t quite understand.”17

“Oh, well. That’s _fine_ , then. Makes it all worthwhile. Great plan. Downright _ineffable_.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He just sat there, looking miserable.

Crowley leaned back on his elbows and tilted his face towards the sun. “So why’re you telling me all this, anyhow?”

“I thought,” the principality answered. He stopped, then started again. “I thought you might … do me a favour.”

“I _might_ ,” Crowley agreed. “But what do you expect me to do about _this_?”

Aziraphale hesitated.

“I can’t stop it. You _know_ that. I mean, even if I _could_ , I _can_ ’t. I’m only one demon, and someone would be bound to notice. And it’s not like we’re _friends_ – I mean, me and the Four of Them. They’re not what you’d call _friendly_. And healing … that’s not my strong suit. More along your line than mine. You’re good at healing. You _like_ healing.”18

“Oh? And _my_ people would approve of any attempt to meddle with, to _thwart_ , their carefully laid plans? Besides, how many do you think I can heal a day? Two, three, maybe five? With hundreds dying, thousands, every day, for years? How do you think I should _choose_?”

“I don’t know, angel. Do you expect _me_ to pick them for you?”

They glared at each other. Aziraphale looked away first. “Crowley, it’s just … I can’t go through this again. I just … can’t.”

“Ah, angel. I know it’s … well, it’s not a _nice_ thing. But they were all going to die anyways.” Crowley lifted a hand, as if he were going to give the other a comforting pet, then thought better of it. “Like before. Wossname. Noah. That whole flood-y mess. It was much worse, really. And the world bounced right back. Bounced back like _anything_.”

“Did you know,” Aziraphale responded slowly, “that my people asked me to be the dove?”

“No, really? Now that _is_ a nice thing. You think about _that_.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. ‘Aziraphale, old boy, just transform into a bird and toddle on over to that ark over there, here, carry this twig in your beak, cheer up Noah and the Missus, there’s a good chap.’ I thought it was a, a gift. I thought it was a _reward_ , even.”

“See what I mean? It all worked out, dinnit?”

Aziraphale continued on as if he hadn’t heard. “And so I flew in with the olive branch. I thought that Noah would be so _reassured_. But he wasn’t. He was … wary. Suspicious. Like I was trying to _trick_ him. He stayed on that boat, doors shut tight, for a solid week, just watching me. As if at any moment I was going to say ‘Ha-ha, joke’s on you, go fetch your umbrellas, rain’s on the way again.’ He wouldn’t open up until I flew away and _didn’t come back_.” He drew a shaky breath. “And when he came out, onto dry land, into this beautiful world washed clean and new and shining, with the Almighty’s solemn Promise stretched across the sky, glittering with all the colors of Creation… the very first thing Noah did? He went and got _stinking drunk_.” 19

“Good and pissed. I remember.” Crowley frowned. “ _And_ cursed his children. Grandchildren. Whatever. Always someone else to blame.”

“Not… not always. But yes. It wasn’t a reward, Crowley. It was a _reminder_. And a warning.”

“Warning? Warning _you_? Whatever for?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, not directly. “This city. Oxford. It may experience up to eighty percent mortality. I’ve seen the models.”

“Oh.” _Oh_. No and no and _no_. “Angel, I can’t protect even one city. I don’t _do_ protection. I never – the Arrangement. It was never about _that_. A spot of artistic inspiration, sure. Increase the fertility of the soil, why not? Put out a fire here and there, who’s to know? But saving a city…”

“I had thought,” Aziraphale said carefully, “that you might _start_ a fire.”

Crowley gaped at him.

“Quite a _large_ fire. Er. Sometime next spring, after the rains. A fire sufficient to, well, burn down most of the houses. The houses with thatched roofs. No thatch, no rats. No rats, no fleas. No fleas, no… Well, perhaps _less_.”

“Not possible. Fires don’t work that way – well, they don’t here. Now. There’s not enough fuel. They won’t burn hot enough, long enough… Look, I _know_ fire.”

“Yes, you do.” The angel nodded. “And there is a, a particular _kind_ of fire. That burns hotter than any other. That will burn until whoever sets it chooses to extinguish it. That can be controlled very … _precisely_.”

“Aziraphale… you’re talking about _Hellfire_.” Crowley was horrified. “You’re mad. It won’t … it _can_ ’ _t_ work. There are ten thousand reasons that this can’t possibly work.”20

“Do you have a better idea? One, single better idea?”

“Do _you_ have any idea how many people would die from that? Die _horribly_?”

Aziraphale lifted his chin. “Fewer than four out of five, anyway.”

“Angel… You know. _People_ die. Ideas … ideas don’t. You _know_ that.” 21 Crowley waved his hand in the vague direction of the College. “The questions, once they get asked –they don’t go away. Believe me on this one.”

“No. The ideas, the questions. They won’t go away. But the feelings, the safety, the _joy_ … That can die. That _will_ die. They … We … My people … they have plotted it out most carefully. They knew I was interested in the ‘New Learning.’ That’s what they call it here. They’ve read all my memos. They thought that I would be _pleased_.” He shifted his eyes, as if reading an invisible map. “It’s inevitable, really. The emphasis on absolute omnipotence will remain. Grow. With everything the humans will experience, with their entire foundations shattered, how can it not? But the faith, the _trust_ , that it all will _of necessity_ be for the good, for the best; that cannot survive. 22 Instead, there will be a nagging awareness that Wrath can always trump Grace. Of the, the _capriciousness_ of it all. That freedom is only for the Divine, not for humanity. The overwhelming certitude that the Almighty can, the Almighty will, do whatever She ineffably well likes. At any moment, rainbow or no, the rain can begin falling and falling and this time never stop.”

Crowley sank back down on his elbows. “Well, that’s not exactly _wrong_ now, innit?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale leaned forward. His voice was soft and intense. “Back … in the beginning. The humans. The man and the woman. What do you remember of them?”

The demon fidgeted. He didn’t like to think about that time. _Parts_ of it, sure. Those were among his best memories. But the woman, the man… It’s not like he felt _guilty_. It wasn’t his _fault_. Yet… “She was … nice. Bright. Curious.” _She called me pretty_. “He … kind. Protective. A bit of a pushover, to be honest.”

“Mmm-hmm. Just so. Right after they had … well, done what they did, both of them. Really, as innocent as they were, what sin could they possibly commit _but_ disobedience? Even so: Fallen, yet still so _vibrant_. Just quivering with questions, with ideas, with _possibility_. They had no notion… How could they? When had they ever experienced … consequences?”

Crowley stirred. “And why _should_ there be consequences? That’s all I said. Just … just _asking_.”

“Don’t be stupid, Crowley.” Aziraphale frowned at him. “Of course there had to be consequences. There are _always_ consequences. Otherwise choices don’t matter. It’s all _meaningless_.”

“Fine, then. Why _those_ consequences?”

“I don’t know why those consequences, there just had to be _some_ consequences, setting them is beyond _my_ skillset,” Aziraphale said impatiently. “That’s not the _point_. The point is the consequences were, well, _me_.”

“You? I don’t—“

“Of course you don’t,” the angel snapped. “You _never_ do. You just _ask questions_. You just _provide the occasion_. Then it’s up to somebody else— _me_!—to say ‘Oh, so sorry, off you go, don’t bump into the wall on your way out’, and bar the gates of Paradise with a bloo- blessed flaming sword.”

“I thought you gave it away,” Crowley mumbled.

“Oh, I _did_ , and blasted difficult it was, too. He didn’t want to take it. He was _terrified_ of it. He looked like it was going to turn on him and _bite_ him, 23 and why shouldn’t he, what did he know of me except punishment?” Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest. “Fortunately, _she_ was more practical. She had the little one to protect.”

“Yeah. She was always … persuasive.”

“And that’s how it’s been. That’s how it _always_ is. Why do you think we angels always introduce ourselves with ‘Fear not!’ _Your_ lot doesn’t have to do that. You can just always lurk, whisper ‘Fancy a drink and a chat?’ Not us!” Aziraphale threw up his hands in exasperation. “Do you have any idea how, how _demoralizing_ it is to always have to reassure people that you’re not about to smite them? Especially when you may very well _have_ to!”

“But that’s what you’re made for, innit?” Crowley objected. “You’re _built_ for it. You were created to trust, to have faith, to, to …” _to love_ , he almost said.

“I _know_ what you think of me, Crowley.” The demon paled, just a bit. Aziraphale went on. “You say to yourself, ‘Oh, it’s only Aziraphale. Always following the rules. Always refusing to question. Always closing his eyes. Just a silly, soft, _stupid_ angel.”

“I don’t…” Crowley protested.24

“But it can be so … so draining. Such a constant _slog_. Just because one was created to be a soldier doesn’t always make it any easier to fight.” Aziraphale slumped, abandoning his normally perfect posture. “Just because one hasn’t … Fallen … doesn’t mean that it isn’t a constant conscious choice to … to _stand_.” He shook his head, as if ashamed. “I’m not … I don’t _blame_. It’s just … It was so … relaxing,” he admitted. “Just for a change. When they had every reason to fear and to hide and to give up and just … cringe away … they chose to be bold. To _dare_.” He sighed. “But you’re quite right. It probably wouldn’t work, anyways.”

Oh, _redemption_. Crowley was going to do it. If he were honest with himself (and he usually tried not to be), he had always been going to do it. From the moment Aziraphale had said _I thought you might do me a favour_. From the moment he had asked _Shall we talk?_ Anything that his angel wanted. He was going to do it, and he was going to make a complete mess of it, he always made a complete mess of it, everything was going to go _wrong_ , they were both going to get in So. Much. Trouble, and he was going to do it anyhow.

Except that Aziraphale _kept talking_.

“It’s _different_ for you, Crowley. You wouldn’t understand. I mean, once you’ve Fallen, you’re done. You don’t have to _keep_ doing it.”

Crowley saw red. 25 “Issss _that_ what you think?” he hissed with (literal) venom on his tongue. “Thatsss how you think it worksss, when you Fall? That you say”—in affected imitation of Aziraphale’s plummy accents—“Dear me, that was _such_ a tumble, nasty bump at the bottom, what? Oh, well, tra-la-la, off for a spot of temptation, tickety-boo, and then a bite to eat!”

“ _Tickety-boo_?” Aziraphale interjected, with revulsion. “I have _never_ said—“26

“You think that Falling isn’t a forever thing? An _always_ thing? That it doesn’t _matter_ how long it’s been, what we do, _how_ we do, even if we _win_ , even if your bit-less philosophers are right and we are somehow _redeemed_ ”—Crowley spat the word, making the grasses beneath him sizzle—“it doesn’t _matter_ , because we’re still US? Because,” he faltered a bit, “because I’m still _me_.”

Aziraphale’s tone was very gentle. “I shouldn’t think it would be such a dreadful thing, to be you. Er,” he coughed, “ _any_ of you. Er. After all, you were an angel. Angels. Once.”

“Yeah. _Once_. That’s the whole thing, innit. Demons are always used-to-be-angels. _Broken_ angels. _Ruined_ angels.” Crowley didn’t dare look at Aziraphale. If there was even a _hint_ of stupid angelic compassion on that stupid angelic face, he’d… he’d…

He’d just have to get ticked off again, that’s what he’d do. Crowley scrambled to his feet. “Yeah. That’s how it is. But at least we’ve got _standards_.”

Aziraphale remained seated, blinking up at him. “I … beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, I should bloody well think so!” Crowley snarled. Yes, this was much safer. “I won’t do it, angel, and you should be _ashamed_ even to have suggested it!”

“Er… suggested what, exactly?”

“Tempting the humans. Tempting them with _hope_.” His voice dripped disgust. “I may be a demon, but at least when I lead people into temptation, it’s with a proper _honest_ vice. Not a dishonest virtue. That’s more Heaven’s style, eh?” Crowley leaned over, putting his face as close to the angel’s as he dared. “But you know and I know that it’s all a lie.”

Aziraphale flinched.

“There is no hope, is there, angel?” Crowley continued relentlessly. “Even if they survive your lot’s ingenious plans. No hope for the wicked, no hope for the righteous; no hope for your daring humans, no hope for the ones that cringe and hide. No hope for me, no hope for you. No hope for any of us.”

“There is _always_ hope, Crowley,” the angel insisted softly.

Well, he _had_ to say that, didn’t he? “No hope,” Crowley repeated. “Live, die, it doesn’t _matter_. Because it’s all gonna end. You know that. We _all_ know that. We don’t know exactly how. We don’t know when—could be a thousand years, could be ten thousand years, could be next week before this … ineffable plague even kicks off—but it’s gonna end. _Everything_. Doesn’t matter who wins, ‘cause _everybody_ loses. _Ever’body_. Ducks and demons, apes and angels, humans and the whole host of stars and planets… Time’s up, game over, put your cards on the table and pawns away in their box, for ever and ever and ever, a-bugger-all-men.” He stood back up, as straight as he ever did, and crossed his arms. “You want to burn it all down, angel, you do it _yourself_.”

“Indeed. Well. I … regret … that I wasted your time with any of this,” Aziraphale said finally, in a perfectly colorless voice. “Do get back to … whatever you were doing.” And then he was _gone_. He didn’t walk away, or disappear in a flash of light or puff of smoke. He was simply no longer there.

Crowley swallowed. He wanted to call out _Come back, angel, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it._ But he _had_ meant it, every word of it. Even if he shouldn’t have _said_ it. Not to Aziraphale. Not to _anyone_.

He glared at the offensively Aziraphale-less spot on the riverbank. The angel would never forgive him—well, he’d probably _forgive_ him, that’s what angels did, sod their beneficent natures—but he’d never _speak_ to him again. He’d cocked it all up, ruined everything, just like he did to everything he touched.

He’d head north and get stinking drunk, that’s what he’d do. Before the rats or whatever got to the stills. Then Crowley remembered the last time he’d tried Scottish whiskey. It would be at least a hundred-fifty years before they came up with anything fit to drink.

He _hated_ this fucking century.

**Notes**

1\. In fact he had once done just that. But that was the _third_ Sack of Rome (455), and one of the more boring ones. Back

2\. He would have to wait another two centuries, though, to be able to watch Aziraphale eat chocolate, and even longer for a decent cup of coffee. Back

3\. Later known as Edward III, eager instigator of the Hundred Years War and arguably the inventor of the modern tax system. Back

4\. Arnaldus de Villa Nova is believed to be the first European to distill brandy, as a medical panacea he called _“l’eau de vie”_ (or “water of life”). Crowley thought that he might miracle a bottle over for his clearly unhappy angel. Back

5\. The OG melody, of course. Anything else was for _posers_. Besides, Orff wouldn’t be born for another six centuries. Back

6\. The Order of Knights of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem (commonly known as the Knights Hospitaller), a Roman Catholic military order, joined with the _soi_ - _disant_ Holy League to sink the fleet of the Turkish Pasha at Imbroz in April 1347, as part of the Smyrna Crusades which eventually led to the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and the splendored but brutal hegemony of Timur (Tamerlane).

Like Aziraphale says, war can be _complicated_. Back

7\. Crowley is here probably alluding the miraculous “serpent stone” of Albertus Magnus. Or, considering that it’s Crowley, possibly not. Back

8\. Lucretius Carus, author of _De rerum natura_ , which roughly translates as _About Things_. Back

9\. Which literally translates as “the thisness of the which.” Back

10\. Except for the Ophites, back in the day. Crowley had really _had_ to put his foot down there. Dead embarrassing, that was. Back

11\. Origen was rumoured to have castrated himself in a burst of enthusiastic literalism. Aziraphale didn’t actually know the truth of it, and wouldn’t have dreamt of asking. Back

12\. "Stiff-necked” may be an understatement. In 1333 the Paris faculty condemned the Pope (John XXII) himself for daring to venture an opinion on a theological question without their concurrence. The Pope promptly backed down and apologized. Back

13\. Doncaster, final residence of Richard Rolle, was by no means “the middle of nowhere”, even in 1347; but since Aziraphale generally used the phrase to indicate “can’t get a decent meal there to save your life”, it was probably true then and (depending on one’s expectations) possibly true now. Back

14\. From Genoa, for the record, but it truly didn’t matter. Back

15\. There had actually been a test run in Constantinople eight hundred years earlier. Michael especially was keen on long-range planning. Back

16\. Quite a feat when a word contains no sibilants. Back

17\. "Improving" mostly by driving women out of the commercial brewing industry. This may be why Aziraphale didn’t understand it. Back

18\. This was definitely an understatement. Aziraphale loved healing, simply _loved_ it, and would often get carried away. More than once Crowley had seen the angel _humiliating_ himself, bathed in a warm palliative glow, his wings on the verge of unfurling in the mortal plane. It was a terrible look for him, just _dreadful_. Which is why the demon occasionally inflicted minor ailments (nothing serious: a twisted ankle, perhaps, an undigested bit of beef) upon humans crossing Aziraphale’s path, solely to embarrass his ancient enemy. Back

19\. Technically, Noah planted a vineyard first, harvested the grapes, fermented the wine, and so forth. Nonetheless, the metaphor stands. Back

20\. In later centuries, Crowley would have said “millions” instead of “thousands.” But the world was still relatively young yet, and he wasn’t accustomed to thinking beyond myriads. Besides, after giving it some thought, he would definitely have come up with a lot more reasons. Back

21\. While not universally valid, this is enough of a general truism that both Heaven and Hell incorporate it into their forward planning. It can be an extremely useful tool in the battle for hearts and minds. It can be, just as often, a right pain in the arse. Back

22\. Jean Gerson, Chancellor of the University of Paris during the first half of the fifteenth century and fierce proponent of Nominalist philosophy, often reminisced that when he was a boy, his father made a game of encouraging young Jean to climb the fireplace mantel and leap off into his father’s arms. Jean would play this over and over, until the one time his father stepped back and refused to catch him. When the child sustained serious injury; his father comforted him with the observation, “Now you know better than to trust anyone but God.”

Gerson would tell this anecdote with _approval._ Back

23\. This turns out to have been a remarkably astute presentiment. Back

24\. He totally did. Back

25\. Due to the colour of his tinted Venetian lenses, he actually saw muddy purple. But that’s not the idiom. Back

26\. This is, in fact, quite true. The phrase “ _tickety_ - _boo_ ” had not once been uttered by Aziraphale in his eternal existence, and certainly not in the five thousand three hundred fifty one years of his acquaintance with Crowley. Later— _much_ later—however, when they were back on speaking terms, when they had cautiously and carefully patched together the shattered remnants of their Arrangement, Aziraphale would find occasion to drop the expression into their conversations. Not as an apology, exactly—he didn’t think he had done anything for which to apologize—and certainly not as an expression of sympathy. One did not pity a demon, it simply wasn’t _done_ ; and besides, Crowley most definitely would have _hated_ that. More, then, as a regretful concession that things were as they were, and one might prefer, on the whole, that they were otherwise.

Crowley never gave any hint that he recognized the allusion. But then Crowley never indicated that he remembered anything at all about this entire encounter. Still, he always laughed whenever Aziraphale said it; so _that_ was all right. Back

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading this!  
> I know that there have been many wonderful fics on this topic, but this one wouldn't let me alone.


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